The Blogs: A Thread That Has Never Broken

From exile to return, faith—not fear—has carried us forward

I recently heard a British writer and broadcaster, often described as an ally of the Jewish community, describe something he called a “sort of game” that Jews play.

They sit around and ask: If what happened in Germany in the 1940s were to happen again—who would hide me?

And I have to be honest—something about that didn’t sit right with me.

Not because the past should be forgotten. Not because history doesn’t matter. But because calling that a “game”—and presenting it as a current Jewish mindset—feels both off and deeply unsettling.

I don’t believe this was said with bad intent.

Perhaps he sees himself as the kind of person who would hide a Jew if it came to that.

But that’s not the standard we should be setting.

The question is not who would hide us.

The question is who will stand up and defend us—so that hiding is not even an option.

And yet, just days ago, two Jewish men were stabbed in London for being visibly Jewish.

So I understand where the fear comes from.

I understand why, in certain places, Jews might be asking themselves difficult questions again:

Am I safe walking like this?

Should I make myself less visible?

Who would stand up for me if something happened?

But that’s exactly why the framing matters.

Because even in moments like these, I don’t believe the defining question of Jewish life today is: who would hide us?

We are not in the 1940s.

We are not stateless.

We are not powerless.

And we are not waiting to be hidden.

The Jewish story did not end in Europe in the 1940s. It did not end in hiding. It did not end in silence.

It continued—in rebuilding, in returning, in reclaiming.

And if you look closely, it also continues in something else—something that has followed us through every chapter of our story.

A thread that has never broken: hope, faith, emunah—our trust in Hashem.

Today, we live in a world where the State of Israel exists. Not as an idea, but as a reality. A place where Jews are not guests. Not tolerated. Not dependent on the goodwill of others.

A place where we are responsible for ourselves.

And somehow, also, a place where we have witnessed things that feel beyond ourselves.

Because Israel is not just a country. It is a story marked by survival that, at times, feels impossible to explain without something greater holding it together.

A people scattered and returned.

A language revived.

A land rebuilt.

And through wars, threats, and uncertainty—again and again, we are still here.

That changes something fundamental.

And for me, that’s not theoretical—it’s the reason I made aliyah.

One of the key reasons I came to Israel is because if anything were to happen, I wanted to be in a country that has my back.

That was never something I felt where I came from.

Here, even with the reality of wars, of sirens, of running to shelters—of going into a mamad—my sense of safety is still stronger.

Not because life here is easy.

Not because there are no threats.

But because the people around me are my people.

And because, in a way that’s hard to fully put into words, I feel that we are not alone here.

I don’t walk down the street wondering:

Is this person against me?

Is that one antisemitic?

Would this one hide me?

Those questions are not running through my mind.

I live in a Jewish neighborhood. I am surrounded by a shared identity, a shared history, a shared sense of belonging.

Yes, there are Arabs in this country, and yes, Israel exists in a region surrounded by Arab nations.

And still, this is where I feel a deeper sense of safety than anywhere else I’ve lived.

Because safety, for me, is not just about physical conditions.

It’s about not having to question whether I belong.

It’s about not having to wonder who would stand up for me.

It’s about knowing that I am in a place where my existence is not up for debate.

I am in my country.

The land where my ancestors walked—Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. Joseph. King David. King Solomon.

And now, I walk here too.

And in this land, I am surrounded by the resting places of tzaddikim—holy souls who came before us and remain rooted here.

There is something about that that I feel—a quiet layer of protection. A presence.

Their prayers still rise from this land—closer, carried by their holiness, watching over us in ways we may not fully understand.

And that is a feeling nowhere else in the world could give me.

It doesn’t erase antisemitism. It doesn’t erase fear. And it doesn’t mean that Jews everywhere feel safe.

But it does mean that we have to be careful about the narratives we repeat—especially publicly.

Because words matter.

And when we describe Jews as sitting around “playing a game” about who would hide them, we risk reinforcing a version of Jewish identity rooted in fear, in dependence, in waiting for rescue.

That is not the full story of who we are anymore.

Yes, there are Jews today who feel vulnerable. That should concern all of us.

But even then, we are not only a people who ask who would hide us.

We are also a people who built a place where we no longer have to.

And perhaps more than that—

A people who, through everything, have never truly stood alone.

We are not the same people we were then.

History shaped us—but it did not freeze us there.

We learned. We adapted. We built something different.

So no—I don’t sit around playing that game.

Not because I’m unaware. Not because I think everything is fine.

But because I believe we are meant to stand differently now.